CRUISING THE GREEN OF SECOND AVENUE, VOL. 1 by Walt Giersbach

CRUISING THE GREEN OF SECOND AVENUE, VOL. 1 by Walt Giersbach

Daily life was dramatic on New York's Lower East Side in the late 1960s. Klein the Biker, Straight Charlie, Sammy the Madman, Frank and the Chick from Canarsie and a cast of tens romp through the city in the dawning of a new age. Jake, the narrator, delivers artistic distance to these dysfunctional people grasping at the metaphorical magic of hitting every green light on Second Avenue. Their highs and lows are chronicled with humor and insight, elation and sadness. The collection updates a rich heritage of vernacular story-telling in the genre of O. Henry's Collected Stories, Pulitzer-winner Jimmy Breslin's The Gang That Couldn't Shoot Straight, and Damon Runyon's Guys and Dolls.

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An Excerpt from: Cruising the Green of Second Avenue
Frank Cassidy and the Canarsie Chick

by Walter Giersbach © 2006

All rights reserved Wild Child Publishing

If seriousness was a statue, Frank Cassidy would have been forty feet tall. He was too solemn for his own good, or anyone else's. I suspect he lacked even a particle of devil-may-care attitude because he had a serious upbringing in New Jersey.

Frank was a Princeton boy. The town, not the university, was his home. His parents were lawyers, he said, and they impressed upon him that life was rational, sex was perilous, and the best gratification was the kind that was deferred.

Maybe that's why he went all the way across country to Reed College in Oregon to find himself. Then, in 1965, he bounced back to New York after graduation and found himself in a hundred-dollar-a-month walkup on the Lower East Side.

That's when I met him, as he was waiting for a berth to open up as a reporter for The New York Times and probably aware of his folks looking over his shoulder. The Times had a cachet of serious journalism that would please Mom and Dad, while his true interest in cinema would be satisfied simply by working in the same building as the paper's iconic film critic, Bosley Crowther. For the time being, he was writing movie reviews for a shopper news that served the Lower East Side with neighborhood features and insights into grocery specials.

"Having a paycheck gives you a perspective on things you don't get in college," he said. "And I like movies. The cinema. Free tickets are a fringe benefit to witnessing the culture of our generation unfolding at twenty-four frames per second."

Tall, dark and good-looking in a preppie kind of way, Frank should have had girls on him like rats fighting over a bagel. But that wasn't the case. He had more girl problems than any person I've known since the invention of Clearasil.

The astounding point about Frank striking out with women is that he got this close to them before he realized the ending had already been written by his too-serious character. He'd knock on the door at the penthouse of love only to have someone inside shout There's no one home! If they made a movie about Frank, he would be Wile E. Coyote.

"I don't know what it is," he told me one night while we were having a beer at Pete's Tavern on Irving Place. "I'm polite. I never offend anyone unintentionally. I pay for dinner. And then they say, 'Don't call me. I'll call you.'"

I'd had this kind of brush-off myself, getting ready for a goodnight kiss only to find it was the ninth inning of a shut-out game. Scoreless again.

"I struck up a conversation with a nice-looking girl I met at the Strand bookstore," he went on. "She gave me her telephone number, but when I called the next day, I discovered it was lost and found at Grand Central Station."

"Frank, I am one hundred percent sympathetic."

"They say your best friend won't tell you if you have bad breath, but you're not my best friend. Do I have halitosis?" He was drowning in his third beer.

"I think part of the problem may be that you have a case of being terminally serious." I felt uncomfortable saying this. Guys don't talk about relationships. Girls may. When Mr. Puberty issues different sets of hormones, boys think of point spreads for the New York Giants and girls begin defining relationships like a bunch of medieval theologians. "You need to loosen up, Frank. Hang loose."

"Last week, I thought I'd found a kindred spirit," he said morosely. "I was invited onto the set where they were filming that Sean Connery movie, A Fine Madness. Over on Fifth Street and Bowery."

"Hey, I used to live there. They really shot a scene there?"

"Connery is this macho poet who lands in the loony bin. I saw him. Jean Seberg even said hi to me. Anyway, I got to talking with the script girl. A really tall girl who went to Bennington. Her name was Jill. She said things like, 'Ovah heah we do cinema diff'rently.' She talked with a kind of lockjaw, like Katherine Hepburn. I bought her a coffee, we chatted, and then I asked her what a best boy is. I never knew. See, in all the credits they identify the hairdresser and the caterer and the set designer. In every film credit there's a best boy."

"Don't give me details. Just cut to the chase, Frank."

"Well, Jill said it's a very important position, but her explanation was interrupted when she was called away by Irvin Kershner, the director. Next thing I saw was the best boy having his lunch delivered on a silver tray, and Jill came back and yelled that his limo was ready. Oh, and when he had a minute, Joanne Woodward would like to consult with him. Jill confided to me then that the best boy had a script being read by Warren Beatty and I should put that in my column."

I sensed something bad was coming and was torn between feeling I had to hear Frank out and wanting to go to the men's room to get away from the ending.

If seriousness was a statue, Frank Cassidy would have been forty feet tall. He was too solemn for his own good, or anyone else's. I suspect he lacked even a particle of devil-may-care attitude because he had a serious upbringing in New Jersey.

Frank was a Princeton boy. The town, not the university, was his home. His parents were lawyers, he said, and they impressed upon him that life was rational, sex was perilous, and the best gratification was the kind that was deferred.

Maybe that's why he went all the way across country to Reed College in Oregon to find himself. Then, in 1965, he bounced back to New York after graduation and found himself in a hundred-dollar-a-month walkup on the Lower East Side.

That's when I met him, as he was waiting for a berth to open up as a reporter for The New York Times and probably aware of his folks looking over his shoulder. The Times had a cachet of serious journalism that would please Mom and Dad, while his true interest in cinema would be satisfied simply by working in the same building as the paper's iconic film critic, Bosley Crowther. For the time being, he was writing movie reviews for a shopper news that served the Lower East Side with neighborhood features and insights into grocery specials.

"Having a paycheck gives you a perspective on things you don't get in college," he said. "And I like movies. The cinema. Free tickets are a fringe benefit to witnessing the culture of our generation unfolding at twenty-four frames per second."

Tall, dark and good-looking in a preppie kind of way, Frank should have had girls on him like rats fighting over a bagel. But that wasn't the case. He had more girl problems than any person I've known since the invention of Clearasil.

The astounding point about Frank striking out with women is that he got this close to them before he realized the ending had already been written by his too-serious character. He'd knock on the door at the penthouse of love only to have someone inside shout There's no one home! If they made a movie about Frank, he would be Wile E. Coyote.

"I don't know what it is," he told me one night while we were having a beer at Pete's Tavern on Irving Place. "I'm polite. I never offend anyone unintentionally. I pay for dinner. And then they say, 'Don't call me. I'll call you.'"

I'd had this kind of brush-off myself, getting ready for a goodnight kiss only to find it was the ninth inning of a shut-out game. Scoreless again.

"I struck up a conversation with a nice-looking girl I met at the Strand bookstore," he went on. "She gave me her telephone number, but when I called the next day, I discovered it was lost and found at Grand Central Station."

"Frank, I am one hundred percent sympathetic."

"They say your best friend won't tell you if you have bad breath, but you're not my best friend. Do I have halitosis?" He was drowning in his third beer.

"I think part of the problem may be that you have a case of being terminally serious." I felt uncomfortable saying this. Guys don't talk about relationships. Girls may. When Mr. Puberty issues different sets of hormones, boys think of point spreads for the New York Giants and girls begin defining relationships like a bunch of medieval theologians. "You need to loosen up, Frank. Hang loose."

"Last week, I thought I'd found a kindred spirit," he said morosely. "I was invited onto the set where they were filming that Sean Connery movie, A Fine Madness. Over on Fifth Street and Bowery."

"Hey, I used to live there. They really shot a scene there?"

"Connery is this macho poet who lands in the loony bin. I saw him. Jean Seberg even said hi to me. Anyway, I got to talking with the script girl. A really tall girl who went to Bennington. Her name was Jill. She said things like, 'Ovah heah we do cinema diff'rently.' She talked with a kind of lockjaw, like Katherine Hepburn. I bought her a coffee, we chatted, and then I asked her what a best boy is. I never knew. See, in all the credits they identify the hairdresser and the caterer and the set designer. In every film credit there's a best boy."

"Don't give me details. Just cut to the chase, Frank."

"Well, Jill said it's a very important position, but her explanation was interrupted when she was called away by Irvin Kershner, the director. Next thing I saw was the best boy having his lunch delivered on a silver tray, and Jill came back and yelled that his limo was ready. Oh, and when he had a minute, Joanne Woodward would like to consult with him. Jill confided to me then that the best boy had a script being read by Warren Beatty and I should put that in my column."

I sensed something bad was coming and was torn between feeling I had to hear Frank out and wanting to go to the men's room to get away from the ending.

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THE STAR CATCHER by Molly Dean

THE STAR CATCHER by Molly Dean

When fifteen year-old Hawke feels fed up with not being able to walk, he escapes in his mind to a misty island filled with moorlands, ancient forests, and monolithic stones: a place where he can move and run and accomplish heroic quests.

His life is turned upside down, though, when he's thrust into this dream world and finds it real! He becomes 'Star Catcher.' The job? Track and collect shooting stars or meteors sent from a more advanced civilization, which have powers that protect the island from approaching evil. He finds many helpers along the way: a serving girl who can communicate with animals and create light, an alluring mermaid, a savvy one-eyed crow, and an old farmer with a secret.

Hawke must also discover what's going on inside the imposing mansion called Moon House. Why do rooms change? Why do objects mysteriously shift? Who lives inside the old forest behind the place and why is the Star Catcher forbidden to enter it? And most importantly, who are Hawke and his stars really battling against? An evil genius? A pirate-like group called the Shrikers who have taken over the island? An Ancient Magic? Or, maybe an aspect of himself?

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Excerpt:

Hawke turned away from the Hedgerow Trail and found the rock path leading to the cove, the place where all of his adventures began. He scrambled down upon it, and after a few minutes, stood watching the waves, green and glassy, curling into the shore. The water looked clearer even than before, reminding Hawke of pictures he had seen of Caribbean waters, full of all the blues and greens that could be concocted on a painter’s palette. Hawke drew forward, peering down to the ocean’s bottom. He remembered the feel of warm saltiness, the healing properties of the water’s liquid massage. Kind of like the moving fingers of the nurses at home, except that this sea treatment worked. It had actually worked.

He carefully set his satchel into an alcove between rocks, and marked the spot with the fragment of an old gray scallop shell. Ripping off his Moon House clothes, he waded out a little way and then dove forward, splashing and kicking. ‘I am free,” he whispered the words aloud, feeling a need to define the moment.

Swimming a few more strokes, he decided that this cove was the only place he felt truly at peace, truly himself. Not at Moon House, not in Archenwood, certainly not at home in his hospital bed. A fish swam by and nibbled at his toes. A head with tangled copper locks surfaced in front of him. The mermaid!

“Aha! The Star Catcher returns. And no one is free,” she said. The mermaid drew closer, radiating a clarity and vividness. Did these qualities emanate from her specifically, or from the environment around her? Was her hair really such a pure copper hue? Her eyes, such a crystal blue-green color? She flaunted salt and sunlight on her face.

Looking into those eyes, Hawke lost his shyness and began to feel bold…even, reckless. “I am free,” he told her. “At least for now. And you. You are free.”

“Perhaps. At least for now,” she echoed in her taunting, musical voice.

All at once he wanted to kiss her. Was it a possible to kiss a mermaid, same as you did a human? As if reading his intentions, she drew back, treading water. “So how goes it, Star Catcher? Are your pockets overflowing with stars?” She gazed up and down his bare chest, half out of the water, and laughed out loud.

“I’ve caught one,” he replied, turning sheepish. “It’s hard work. Really. The stars don’t just fall like rain, you know. You have to plot and plan, and be just at the right place at the right time.”

“The plotting and planning must be dreadful.” She rolled her eyes, as if making fun of him. “The Red Star. They say it brings love and joy to those who touch it. I want to see the star, to hold it in my hands. I might let you kiss me, if you’d show it to me.”

Again, she’d read his mind. He glanced at the rocks where his clothes and satchel lay concealed, and turned back to her.

The mermaid’s eyes glowed as she twisted a wavy lock around one finger. She moved a tiny bit closer, and so did Hawke to her. “The kiss first,” he demanded.

“The star first.” Her eyes shone merry but uncompromising.

LUCKY'S BREAK by Jenn Nixon

LUCKY'S BREAK by Jenn Nixon 

Lucky Series Book Two

After almost losing her uncle Phen during the investigation of her mother's murder, Felicia "Lucky" Fascino cut all ties and ran away, hoping her family would move on and forget the promises they made. Putting the past behind her has never been easy, but Lucky knows working as an assassin is slowly destroying her already fractured psyche. Staying away, especially now that her family is in danger, is the only way to keep everyone safe.

Kenji Zinn, determined to locate his ex-lover, tracks Lucky to a small island with her family's help, and finds her in a miserable and self-destructive condition. Their connection is strained after months apart, but his feelings haven't changed, and he attempts to persuade her to come home, to protect her family and keep her promise. But only Phen is able to convince Lucky that the way to get closure is finding an elusive man named Quimby and take him out permanently.

While her family continues to track their target, Lucky returns to work for the network struggling through each job, aware that pushing her family away won't bring anyone the peace they deserve. As she repairs her shattered relationships, her true feelings for Kenji are tested when she almost loses him completely. Before it's too late, Lucky realizes he's her best ally to help her finish what she started and find Quimby before he strikes again.

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Excerpt:

Lucky tried to ignore how great Kenji looked. His hair went down to his shoulders, but he kept it tied back at the nape of his neck. He still hadn’t cut it since she mentioned it to him almost a year ago. The slight shadow on his dark jaw made his ice eyes pop on his face.

“What?” she said.

“I would like to talk to you, Felicia.” He was doing more than staring at her appearance. He studied every move she made.

“And I’d like to be lying on the beach in front of my rented villa, but we can’t always get what we want…can we?” She placed a hand on her hip.

“Perhaps after dinner,” he said.

“I’m back, there’s no need for you to stick around. You did your job, collect your money or whatever it is you wanted to get out of finding me and go.”

He lurched forward, keeping tight fists at his side. “You think I have done this for money? Why are you so…?”

“So what?” she taunted before taking another long drink.

“You have an hour to get your shit out of my room.” She didn’t wait for an answer. Lucky pushed by him, went into her room, and grabbed a towel. When she got to the
bathroom, she paused without turning around. “And you can tell Elizabeth I won’t be having dinner.”

Lucky shut and locked the door behind her. She sat down on the tub, cradled her head in her hands. The only thing she could do on the flight home to keep from screaming at everyone was to remain silent. Realizing she wouldn’t be able to ignore everyone indefinitely, she had to find some middle ground. If she kept Phen and Bet at bay
and just talked business, it may work again.

Long enough to see it through.

Only problem, she had to get rid of Kenji. If he stayed, he’d sidetrack her. She wouldn’t let that happen again. He couldn’t be part of the equation anymore. Her inability to focus while around him had one to many repercussions. Besides, bringing more people into her shitty life was unfair and dangerous.

He’d probably been at the compound since the day she left. Her house became his personal base of operations. That fried her tail. Still, she was more pissed off with Phen for allowing him to stay, and of all places, her room. Lord knows how much Kenji snooped or what he had found. The thought of him going through her photos, letters, or even her sporadically recorded journal sent shivers down her back. Thinking of him sleeping in her bed gave her hot flashes.

Fuck.

Lucky definitely had to stay away from Kenji. He’d try to fix her. Help her. Put the pieces back in order. She didn’t want any part of it. No more distractions. All she wanted was to do her job and leave with a clean slate.

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THE GOATS OF SANTO DOMINGO by Robert McEvilla

THE GOATS OF SANTO DOMINGO by Robert McEvilla

Whenever John Romero was asked if he was wounded in Vietnam, he always received a confused look when he replied that his eye was lost in Santo Domingo.

A former minor league baseball player with just six weeks left to serve in the Army, John's plans for making a comeback are interrupted when his unit is deployed to the Dominican Republic, and he finds himself in a combat situation. While dodging bullets, he meets a beautiful Dominican woman, the aloof Ramona. She inflames the private passions of the paratroopers that view her from their command post. Romero plots a course to win her affections, but the political intrigue and the carnage in the streets of Santo Domingo conspire to thwart his every move, forcing him to make a drastic decision....

The Goats of Santo Domingo explores the complexity of emotions that arise when one is confronted with a situation in a state of flux, and demonstrates that sometimes doing the right thing can literally blow up in your face.

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An Excerpt from: The Goats of Santo Domingo

Copyright © 2013 Robert McEvilla

All rights reserved, Wild Child Publishing.



A coil of concertina wire stretched down the middle of the street between the sandbags Romero stood behind and her turquoise house. Behind him was a schoolhouse that his unit had occupied since their arrival. The old structure reminded Romero of the Alamo.

“Keep your eye on that house,” Rosen had said to him. “You’ll see her if you get posted at the sandbags; she comes out every morning around nine and reads a book for half an hour—a real beauty queen.” Romero had heard the other men in his squad talking about her. They referred to her as Miss Santo Domingo, the Princess, or the Dominican Damsel.

The door opened on the brightly painted stucco house. She wore a short white skirt, the hem well above the knee. The lawn chair she held was unfolded with a nobility of motion, the way a virtuoso opens his violin case. She sat down, crossed her shapely legs, and opened a book before setting it daintily on her lap. For a confused moment, Romero was convinced she was Carla. He stepped out from behind the sandbags and was a few strides off the curb before the coiled barbs stopped him. The closer view made him see that it wasn’t Carla after all. She was somebody else—a stranger—both mysterious and recognizable. She was perhaps Miss Swanson, his fourth grade teacher to whom he had written his first love letter and hid it in his school bag. There was a bit of Anna about her, too, the little girl who’d lived across the street from him when he was twelve. She was someone who had once held him tight, but not close enough—someone who had left and gone away.

A real Spanish Contessa, he thought.

She wore her black hair up in a beehive, or was it called a French twist? He only knew that he hadn’t seen any other Dominican women wear their hair that way. That style took a lot of hairspray to hold, and hairspray was hard to come by in a city that had been ripped apart by civil war.

She turned a page, and Romero became curious as to what she was reading. He knew he should have waved at her when she first appeared. It would’ve looked foolish to wave after she had opened her book. He stepped back behind the sandbags.

The past two days had been quiet. The latest cease-fire was holding for the most part. Now the mission was to take a defensive position along the northern line of the rebel zone and not fire unless fired upon. The streets were paved, and the buildings were stucco and cinder block. It wasn’t the most prosperous of neighborhoods, but it was better than the dirt streets down by the river where Romero’s squad had cleared out snipers from wooden shacks.

His Spanish Contessa turned another page, and Romero rested his elbows on top of a sandbag and watched. Since the cease-fire, civilian traffic had increased on each side of the wire; mostly vintage American cars and pickup trucks. Three-wheeled scooters throttled past with loads of produce.

The Dominican beauty shifted her weight in the chair. Through the ninety feet that separated them, he could see himself opening the door for her to get into his Buick. They were on a date back home. Romero liked the way she rubbed her hand over the leather upholstery. He introduced her to his buddies, and their noses opened.

A gun jeep from the recon platoon drove by, and the driver waved at Romero. The gun crew gawked at his Contessa. They wore a lewd itch in their expressions. He was wondering what he looked like to her when Sergeant Dixon elbowed him in the ribs.

“Have you been thinking about those drawers, Romero?”

“Too bad she has to live on the other side of the wire,” Romero answered. “Did you ever see a babe that looked so delicate and dangerous at the same time?”

“Dangerous is right—like a black widow. One hump and die.”

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SHATTERED by Patrick Royal

SHATTERED by Patrick Royal

Mind Shadows: Book 1

The only thing that multi-published, award winning horror author, Tom Elliot, wanted was to move to the country for a change of scenery and relaxation, to a quiet part of southern Illinois. It seemed he'd picked out a wonderful spot, miles away from the closest neighbor and even further away from civilization.

Tom couldn't write to save his soul. Weird thoughts trampled through his head and left him wondering if he'd made a mistake moving from Chicago. Could it have been that he ripped himself from his element, like his best friend, Michael Gully, had predicted? That he couldn't answer yet.

Words came and flowed like wildfire, but at what price? Tom's imagination was getting the best of him and running rampant. The very characters that he created tormented him, driving him mad where he couldn't distinguish fiction from reality.

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Excerpt:

Copyright © 2013 Patrick Royal

All rights reserved, Wild Child Publishing.

A moan drifted from the next room and teased Tom’s ear. Stopping to listen, he struggled to figure out what he’d heard. He stepped slowly into the living room. A woman stood with her back toward him. His heart thudded fast.

The woman moaned. Her long-fitted skirt hugged her hips, and a pleated white shirt. On the floor by her feet lay droplets of blood.

Tom peeped around the woman’s body and caught a glance of her face. “Lady, who are you? Why are you in my house?” he asked and widened his eyes.

Tom still faced the woman’s back, and she wept a bit harder. “You should know why I’m here,” she said in a soft but shaky voice. She turned around, faced him, and quickly threw her arms out in front of her. Blood trickled and dripped onto the floor from deep slits across both wrists. In her hand she held a yellow hair ribbon.

Tom’s jaw dropped open and he stumbled back, widening his view. “Oh my God. Wha…?”

The woman stepped closer to him and held her arms out with her wounds still dripping blood. Her body projected forward, as if traveling in flash.

“You did this! You killed my daughter, and you made me what you see.” She shoved her bloody wrists toward Tom.

“No, no. You’ve made a mistake,” Tom screamed and backed away from her. He clung to the wall with his legs weakening and his hands trembling.

The woman stood and laughed hysterically.

Tom squeezed his eyes shut. “You’re not real. You’re not real,” he screamed. Opening his eyes, the woman had disappeared, the room once again silent. Tom sank to his knees, sat on the floor, and leaned against the wall with a blank stare.

Not long after the sun rose high in the sky, Tom’s nerves finally calmed. He called Michael, and it ended similar to the other times he called him for some well needed answers. His friend proved unable to offer any help. Hanging up, Tom sat at his desk more confused than ever. Am I losing my mind like Michael fears? He chuckled over his friend’s reaction when he told him that he planned to take a small break from writing. He had to admit that it even sounded strange to hear himself say it. Maybe, he was losing it. He had never really been scared of anything. Michael was the one that had always been scared and had nightmares over things that bothered him. What bothered him now was that he loved where he lived, but he hated the idea of being so far away from Michael. He had grown used to driving over to his house and discussing life’s little problems, and vice versa.

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FANGS FOR CHRISTMAS by Cutter Phoenix

FANGS FOR CHRISTMAS by Cutter Phoenix

Seven years ago on Christmas Eve, Justice, the one person Tristan cared about the most, vanished. Alone for yet another holiday, he rescues a man in an alley only to come face to face with his missing lover.

But something is different about Justice, and before Tristan can stop himself, he welcomes him back into his life. It forces him into the middle of vampire gang wars and he finds himself on the run with Justice. A car chase, a destroyed Christmas tree, and the alleged murder of a spy vamp sends them into the worst blizzard Pennsylvania has endured in years.

Can he allow Justice to have his heart, or will he demand Tristan’s life instead?

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Excerpt:

 

“Come here,” Justice said softly. “Let me hold you for a moment.”

At his words, Tristan gulped, the familiar surge of adrenaline jumping through his system. He allowed Justice to draw him closer. In the embrace of the shadows, he savored the feel of his ex’s lips on his forehead then along his temple and down to his mouth where he kissed Tristan deeply. Their tongues dueled, and dimly he remembered how Justice had sucked the steak dry and how he’d showed him fangs and a distorted face. But just as quickly as the memories surfaced, he dashed them to bits. This was Justice, his Justice.

He kissed his old lover back and threaded his fingers into his hair. Everything about his ex felt cold, but surely that stemmed from the winter wind? Justice pushed him more firmly to the bricks and then swept his hand inside Tristan’s coat and palmed his groin. Thoroughly aroused, Tristan groaned loudly, his cock hardening until it throbbed painfully against his zipper.

“I’ve missed you more than you can ever comprehend,” Justice murmured in his ear. He rubbed Tristan’s erection faster. “The memories of making love in your loft apartment are what kept me from going crazy.”

If he didn’t stop caressing him, Tristan would come right there in his jeans. It had been seven long years since they’d been together, and he’d not found it in himself to pursue anyone else, not even for pure carnal pleasure.

“Please, Justice.” He gulped. “Don’t do this to me."

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THE HOT HOUSE by Joe Donn Martin

THE HOT HOUSE by Joe Donn Martin

It is called the Hot House. Murderers live there. Gangsters. Serial killers. The nation's worst lawbreakers, sociopaths and evil men call it home. It is the Federal Penitentiary at Leavenworth and it is about to get a hell of a lot hotter.

The new warden is also the leader of a pervasive satanic cult, gaining ever more power through his escalating campaign of murder and mayhem. Behind the fortified walls and razor wire of the prison, the warden has transformed the Hot House into his own hell on earth, complete with a bloodthirsty army of hardened criminals.

Only a small, determined band of heroes know the truth about what's going on inside the Federal Penitentiary, but will they be too late to stop the warden before all hell breaks loose?

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An Excerpt from: The Hot House

Copyright © 2012 Joe Donn Martin

All rights reserved, Wild Child Publishing.

 

“To business – Robert Muncie. I want your soul.” Schugart opened the top drawer, pulled out an official-looking stack of papers, smiled at it, and slid it across the table. “It’s all there in black and white; the usual in perpetuity clauses and all apply. I took the liberty of filling in the back pages – where I relinquish all claim on your daughter’s soul or the souls of her descendents.” The warden flipped the pages for Robert. “See? Um, disregard that fine print there. That’s just boilerplate.”

A pen appeared in the warden’s other hand. He held it out to Robert.

“Sign here.”

Robert took the pen and in one violent motion stabbed it through the warden’s hand. Robert hammered down so hard, the tip of the pen passed all the way through the hand, and the stack of papers, until it stuck in the desktop.

The warden sucked his pointy teeth with a hissing sound. Black blood bubbled from the wound. “Not good, Mr. Muncie,” he said. “Not good.”

The warden wiggled his hand back and forth until the pen came loose. He lifted it off the desk. The pen jutted out both sides of his hand like an arrow-through-the head gag. Blood spotted pages of the contract fluttered down. Schugart sprawled his fingers wide, blood oozing down his forearm. He made a fist. The pen snapped in two, both halves clattering to the desk. When the warden opened his hand again, the wound was gone.

“The problem, the way I see it, is you still think you’re a badass. You still think you can muscle your way out of this situation. Oh, Mr. Muncie, please don’t give me that look. Yes, that thousand-yard-stare. As if I’m boring you. As if I’m not worth your attention.” Schugart snapped his fingers in Roberts face. Sparks flew from his finger tips and Robert jerked his head back. “Better,” the warden said.

Troy appeared at the opening, balancing a carafe, three mugs, and a plate holding packets of cream and sugar in his arms. Schugart instructed him to set them on the table and then dismissed the line officer. Troy left without a word.

“First thing I did as the new warden of this place,” Schugart explained as he poured, “was switch the coffee. They had been using some generic blend, tasted like shit. I switched to Community Coffee’s Hotel blend. Sure, it’s more expensive, but how can you put a price?”

Julie’s fingers trembled and her mug rattled as she pulled it across the table. Schugart winked at her.
“My heavy metal queen.”

Robert took cigarettes and a lighter from his shirt pocket, tapped two out, and started them up. He handed one to Julie who almost collapsed with gratitude. Finally able to have something that wasn’t a total nightmare – coffee and cigarettes.

“We doin’ good?” the warden asked. Robert nodded, blowing a trail of smoke out the side of his mouth. “Good,” the warden continued. “Because what comes next is important. I will have your soul, or you and your lovely daughter are going in the pit where you will both burn in hellfire for all eternity. Do you understand?”

“You want my soul?”

“Yes.”

“And if I give it to you, you’ll let Julie go?”

“Absolutely.”

“But then you’ll have to kill me?”

Schugart winced and sat back, as if he’d just been slapped. “Oh, no. No, no, no. You’ll go free too – the both of you, one big happy family again. Its just that I’ll have ownership of your soul, is all.”

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A SATAN CAROL by Alan Steven Kessler

A SATAN CAROL by Alan S. Kessler

Nostalgic for the Inquisition and plague, Satan feels neglected by the modern world that no longer cares about heresy or blames him for disease and death. He plans to create a new genesis, a place where people will love him. For that, his son needs just the right soul.

Moving through time from Ireland during the famine year 1848 to Massachusetts, 2028, and a parallel dimension, Satan tries to create a place where people will love him. This requires Katie, age 14, to give her baby's soul to the devil's son.

A Satan Carol is a horror story with a message for those who want to understand God's apparent absence as the intersection of freewill and choice. It is a story with religious themes written for a secular reader. It is, in the end, a tale about family values even if they originate in hell.

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An Excerpt from: A Satan Carol
Copyright © 2011 Alan S. Kessler

All rights reserved, Wild Child Publishing.

“First, though, you need a little perspective. We have to go back to the beginning when, as I’ve already told you, I was God’s favorite. Know what happened to me? Forget what you’ve heard or read about my fall from grace. That’s all propaganda. Jesus won and winners perpetuate their own myths. If the Moabites had a bible, would Moses be the hero? Here’s the real story. I got screwed! My younger brother is a brown-noser. He told Dad he liked the idea of free will for men. I said it was a lot of crap. How can you expect a dog to obey if you let it run wild to shit all over the house? For being honest, I was cast out. Jesus got a really neat holiday with colored lights, songs, and puppies in bows; I get blamed for everything that goes wrong and the only ones who celebrate my birth are a few old hags dancing naked in the woods around a stump. Take my word for it, Orem, that’s not a pretty sight. These women might be smart, they all have PhDs in English literature from Michigan, but I’m like most guys, I prefer dumb blondes with big tits.

“I’ll bet you’re thirsty.”

Legs crossed, reclining in the air, Mr. Green sipped a tall, frosted glass of lemonade. “Ah, that hits the spot.”

“So this is where I am,” Orem said, his dry lips cracked and bleeding, “in the world you created. Hell.”

Mr. Green jumped down, his face on fire. By crushing his drink he made Orem feel he’d just swallowed glass.

“You think this is Hell? Death is oblivion! Hell doesn’t have people! It’s a pit holding a few souls, the universe’s worst, and I’m their fucking keeper! ShinyLand 7 is infinitely better. But it’s not my design, you insulting son-of-a-bitch! The people here did this to themselves! They made the choices! Talking to you is like talking to a two-year old. Want to take a nap? Should I get you some cookies and milk? OK, I’ll explain it to you, step by step. I would love a world all bright and blue, the kind Dad gave to Christ. But God didn’t help me find one. He doesn’t even speak to me. I had to do everything myself. ShinyLand 7 is a shit hole, the location’s terrible, but it’s a place I can fix up and call home.

“Who really knows why some people get the blessing and others the curse?” Wanting him to understand, Mr. Green increased Orem’s pain. “Dad loves the story about Jacob tricking Isaac into blessing him instead of Esau. God can be old fashioned, very Old Testament, if you know what I mean. OK, maybe I was a little rebellious, all children are, except Jesus, but it’s not easy when your father doesn’t love you. You try and try; nothing is ever good enough. I disappointed my Dad. Pal isn’t exactly the kind of child I wanted either but here’s the difference between God and me: I didn’t abandon my son just because he’s different. You work with what you have. Take this place. Like I said, it’s not exactly the Garden of Eden, but it could be worse. The other ShinyLands burned to a crisp. I’m grateful to have Pal. I’m explaining the world to him and my wife is doing her part to make sure he understands. We hire good help. Pal’s education is a team effort. Occasionally, one of our staff dies or gets eaten. That’s not my fault. I’m just a parent trying to do the best I can for my son. He’s walking now and more alert. I told you I have a plan for him. As a Christ-like man, you’ll appreciate it. It’s all about the soul.”

Orem’s forehead and palms bled.

“It’s open kimono time.” Mr. Green stood sexless and naked, his small head with its jolly face resting on an enormous belly covered in front with a thousand, green, spider-like legs growing from sores of bubbling pus. In back, hands burrowing through scaly flesh dangled long strands of eyeballs twitching and spinning in torment. “I don’t often reveal myself. People find it disturbing. But I know you value the truth.”

The presence of the devil’s inner self overwhelmed Orem in a spiritual and physical, dark poison. He saw himself inside out. Blood dripped hot and sulfuric on his gray heart perforated by worms. Little men without eyes or mouths, their faces twisted flesh, hung upside down from his melting bones.


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CHEERAGE FEARAGE by Kimberly Dana

CHEERAGE FEARAGE by Kimberly Dana

Fly high and die! Welcome to Camp Valentine - a cheerleading camp with raging spirit. A ghost that is! It’s ten years after Lexy Mills’ bizarre death, but the bloodthirsty pranks are still going down at a hypnotic pace. Urban legend says it’s Lexy seeking revenge, picking off cheerleaders one by one in a symphony of horrors. But is it? Tiki Tinklemeyer, an indentured servant to the geek label, is thrown into the middle of camp mayhem while perpetually plagued by her alter egos, Sally Self-Conscious and Natalie Negative Thoughts. Not only is she out of her element spending a week with the micro-miniskirt V.I.P.’s, but now someone wants to kill her. Is it Heather-Amber, the indisputable emotional terrorist with a disdain for the new girl; Lexy herself; or some other tanorexic with a mean herkie/toe touch combo?

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An Excerpt from: Cheerage Fearage

Copyright © 2012 Kimberly Dana

All rights reserved, Wild Child Publishing.


With the determined patience of a professional assassin, the blonde counted slowly to fifty, waiting for the shapely, agile form that had cruelly beat her out of every competition to go still and flaccid forever. She delighted in feeling the strong steady pulse slow to a mere fleeting throb and then finally to complete nothingness. When the time came, the blonde released the body into the dark water without pause or sentiment, and gracefully swam back to the dock, crawling up the ladder with a smooth, athletic gait.

Mission accomplished.

Giddily content, the blonde patted away streaming lines of lake water with her tank top, tossing it back on along with her vintage cutoffs. She left the other’s clothes balled up below the “NO DIVING” sign and never looked back. The long-suffering second-in-command was now the captain of the Valentine Cheerleading Squad.

It was official. The queen bee had been dethroned and destroyed.

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ONCE MORE LOVE by

ONCE MORE LOVE by Jean Reiner

With three adult children and 50 plus years under her belt, Liz Liner has had her share of heartache. A year was not long enough to mourn her beloved husband Larry. But loneliness is a hard burden to shoulder, even when she has her faith to comfort her, and Philip is an attractive man.

Even after seven years of being alone, Philip still misses his wife Trish. He’s dated a number of women since her death, but none of them touched him deeply like Trish. Now that he’s approaching his sixtieth birthday, he’s nearly given up on love. But then he meets Liz, and he’s instantly attracted. Perhaps there’s still a chance for him.

It should be simple, but Liz and Philip are from different faiths. From their friends and family to the clergy, everyone seems to be against their relationship.

Can their love stand strong against the disappointments and trials that lay ahead of them? Or will other’s prejudices prevent them from finding happily ever after?

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An Excerpt from: Once More Love

Copyright © 2012 Jean Reiner

All rights reserved, Wild Child Publishing.

Liz walked back to the window. “Here you are and thank you,” she said to the two women as she handed them their tickets. She blew a loose hair on her forehead. She looked through the stack again, wishing all the tickets would be gone. Unfortunately, there were still a few left.

“Hey, don’t stop there,” Mary said. “Tell me more about Margo.”

“I was thinking of watching the play tonight, but I don’t think I want to see it with someone else in the role of Margo. I loved doing her so much.”

Clapping her hands together, she laughed and said, “I loved saying, ‘Fasten your seat belts, it’s going to be a bumpy night!’ I was so excited when I won the Best Actress in a Musical award for that role. I’ll always cherish having been given the opportunity to play that part. Larry said he was so proud of me.” The smile died on her lips. Here I am working box office tonight, and Larry isn’t...No don’t go there again. She lowered her eyelids trying to hide the hurt she felt. It was so hard to accept the fact that he was gone. I miss Larry as much today as when it first happened. Why did it have to happen? She clenched her hands into tight fists. Her chin dropped to her chest.

She was so lost in her thoughts that a light rapping on the ledge of the window startled her. The rapping was followed by a deep, icy voice. “Sorry, I don’t mean to disturb you, but we do need our tickets.”

Liz turned to look at Mary who shrugged in helplessness since she was busy handling a complaint about seating. Liz blushed as she rushed to rifle through the tickets. “I beg your pardon. I am so sorry.” Her voice took on a crisp, business-like edge. “Your name, please?” She looked up at the intruder. She saw a very distinguished looking gentleman. He had beautiful grey hair and blue eyes that seemed to be smiling at her. How could that be after he’d just been so sarcastic? He was quite a bit taller than she. Liz decided he must be close to six feet. Their eyes met and locked. There appeared to be a challenge in his look. Liz had the strangest feeling.

Have we met before? I think I would have remembered.

“The name is Philip McCaffery,” he said.

Liz looked through the ticket tray twice. “I’m sorry Mr. Caffery, but I don’t

see your tickets.” She tried to keep him from seeing her shaking hands.

“I said McCaffery,” he replied, “Caffery the way you said it but with a Mac in front.” He laughed.

Liz’s embarrassment grew. “I didn’t understand. I’m sorry. I had a feeling that I shouldn’t be here tonight.” A sigh of relief escaped her when she located his tickets. “Oh, yes, I’m sorry, here they are.” She handed him the envelope with the two tickets in it just as a tall, pretty blonde woman joined him.

“This had better be good,” Philip said to his companion in a joking yet threatening way. The lights in the lobby flickered a warning causing the noise in the lobby to dim as the crowd moved toward the theater area. Liz watched as the woman settled her arm in the crook of his elbow.

With a bemused shake of her head, the blonde looked at Liz. “I can’t take him anywhere.” A warm smile lit her face. Extracting her arm from Philip’s, she said, “Well, hello, Liz. I’m Betty Pollard. It’s been such a long time since I’ve seen you.” Her hand came to rest on her companion’s shoulder.

Liz’s eyes followed her every move. She’d had that wonderful kind of familiarity with Larry. There was that jealousy again. She returned the smile, but not with the same warmth. Her hands and eyes returned to the ticket tray.

Betty’s smile grew broader. “I was in Applause with you. I know you don’t remember me. I was one of the chorus girls.” She laughed. “I don’t think you could tell that by looking at me today.” She frowned as she looked down at herself.

Liz looked at Betty’s still well-proportioned, albeit heavier body, and broadened her smile. “You still look pretty to me.”

A smile replaced her frown as Betty continued, “You may not remember me but I remember how wonderful you were as Margo.”

All this flattery caused Liz to be a little nervous and more than slightly self-conscious. Liz pushed her hand through her hair. “Thank you. Thanks for the compliment. I do remember you,” she fibbed. “I’m surprised and pleased you remembered me after all this time.” Liz smiled naturally now. Meeting someone who had been in a play with her brought back all the pleasures of the play. She was relaxed and in a better mood.

Philip’s gaze never left Liz’s flushed, smiling, animated face. She could feel him staring at her. She felt her blush deepen. Her face and hands felt warm. She blotted her lip again. She talked to Betty, but she knew he was staring at her. Why is he looking at me that way? Why do I like the fact that he’s looking at me?

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DARK SIDE OF PURGATORY by L.J. Hadaway

DARK SIDE OF PURGATORY by L.J. Hadaway

Everyone knows Jaxon Slater. He's the life-of-the-party guy. He's the fun guy we want to invite to our outdoor barbeques but not marry our daughters. He is our nephew, the next-door neighbor who drinks too much, a friend of a friend that overdosed on heroin. He's the class clown in high school that was always in trouble from drinking and driving.

Jaxon Slater has 'pushed the envelope' and tried to scam his way through most of his life. He's charismatic and good-looking. Many things come easy to Jaxon. Sobriety isn't one of them. He's tried staying clean numerous times but always falls into a relapse, using one more time. His long time sponsor had warned him plenty. His last use of heroin landed him dead--in Purgatory.
Jaxon believes he is having a terrible nightmare until he finds an old friend and recalls how he died. Reality sets in and Jaxon begins to learn the rules of the strange land. He runs into a mean bunch of guys and an unlikely guide. To have a chance at saving himself, he must complete a quest: find a certain young woman and steer her away from the highway of destruction that killed him.

Old temptations linger, and dark forces shadow his path.

Can Jaxon survive the abyss of his deepest fears to find redemption?

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An Excerpt from: Dark Side of Purgatory
Copyright © 2011 L.J. Hadaway

All rights reserved, Wild Child Publishing.

Chapter One
A sharp, piercing pain to his head and strong inhale woke him. Jaxon Slater’s eyes flew open and shut tight, as if hoping it would dull the headache, which turned to a heavy pounding. He envisioned tiny men with ball-peen hammers beating railroad spikes into his brain. The thought would have made him grin if he’d not been in so much agony. He placed his hand to his forehead and pushed the palm hard against the spot between his eyes. The simple act seemed to relieve some of the intensity. He squeezed his eyes in a small gesture to will the pain away.

“God, why did I have to get loaded last night?” Why? How many times have I sworn I would never do this again?

The throbbing doesn’t seem quite so bad now, Jaxon thought with a small sense of relief. He recalled some words of advice given to him once: if he pinched the area between his thumb and first finger, it could make a headache go away. The trouble was that he didn’t know if it would work and did not want to remove his hand from his head for even a second to try.

Jaxon opened his eyes to blurred, dark spots. He blinked several times in an attempt to focus. Despite the pain, Jaxon tried to remember…. Where am I? His thoughts were sluggish and slow to respond. “What did I do last night?” A few memories floated just beyond his reach. A young woman’s face flashed in his mind. “Candy…. She drove us here….”

He recalled the front of the old house. Candy’s laughter sounded in his head, fresh in his memory. She had shot up the heroin first. It didn’t take him long to join in. Even the memory gave him a slight rush, thinking about the needle, sticking it in his arm. He opened his eyes again and found the ceiling of an abandoned house. Some of the tiles had rotted away, perhaps from water leaking through the roof. Decayed, the tiles littered the old linoleum floor. Water spots discolored other areas of the ceiling, giving off a weird tie-dye effect.

Wallpaper peeled off in layers, as if the room was in a slow process of discarding its covering, like a snake shedding its old skin. Jaxon struggled to sit up but fell back onto the stained, bare mattress.

“You dumb fuck!” He slammed his fist on the floor. The realization of his relapse brought self-loathing. Guilt and shame knotted an angry, hot coal in his gut. He remembered what his old sponsor, John B., warned him to watch out for.

“You need to watch the threes.”

“Threes?”

“Three days, thirty days, three years.”

Thirty days clean and sober.

Just two nights ago, he’d hooked up with a cute little number. Only he’d overslept and was late to work. His boss fired him on the spot. Dammit. His boss knew he was one of the hardest working guys on the crew.

“I can’t have you showing up late all the time, Jaxon,” his boss spouted, shaking his head and appearing to feel bad about letting him go.

Jaxon thought about his boss’s comment. All the time, hell. Just the third time I was late. Another three.

After being fired, he decided to go to a bar. He’d planned to have a soda and play a couple games of pool. The woman, Candy, came into the pub. She’d plopped right down on the barstool beside him. “Gimme a beer,” she ordered loudly to the bartender.

Pretty little thing. Blonde, petite, and a laugh so sexy you just knew she’d give good head. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he must have known he was headed for relapse, otherwise he wouldn’t have driven to the bar after being fired. He knew better. Later on, she’d kissed him; the tang of brew teased up fond memories of wild women and good beer.

Candy glanced toward the back of the room. “I bet you a drink I can kick your ass in pool.”

“You’re on.”

She won the damn game and sauntered back to the bar.

“Hey, he’s buying me a drink, and I’m having 151 rum.”

Jaxon, his ego bruised from losing to a woman, decided not to be outdone. “I’ll have the same.”

Candy took her shot glass, lifted it, and drank it in one swallow. Jaxon grinned, picked up a lighter next to a pack of cigarettes, lit the alcohol in his glass, and threw the flaming liquid to the back of his throat.

She laughed and kissed him again.

His younger sister, Merilee, always told him he was too handsome for his own good. She’d be wondering what happened to him by now. I better get to a phone and call her. Jaxon lay on the mattress, and broken shards of the night before clicked through his head. He recalled drinking a few more shots. The rest seemed beyond him, hiding behind a secret door in his mind. A few flashes: Candy’s sexy smile, the needle, the rush. One more blackout. Candy must have wanted something stronger, or he did, to end up here.

A cunning and baffling disease, he’d heard John B. say a hundred times. Everyone called him John B. because there were other men in the A.A. home group with the first name of John and because last names were not used in the meetings. John B. told him, “You don’t even know you’re in a relapse. It’s why you call me before you get into trouble.”

John had been dead for years now. Still, his voice often rang loud and clear in Jaxon’s mind. He pulled himself up to a sitting position. There was...something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

Jaxon stood up and tucked in his T-shirt. He glanced down at his worn Levi’s 501 button fly. His belt was unfastened and hung from the loops. He pulled it tight, notching it at his thirty-two-inch waist. His leather cowboy boots lay next to the old, stained mattress. Jaxon shook involuntary at the thought of sleeping there all night. “Nasty!” His voice was full of disgust. “How did I go downhill so damn fast?”

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LADY THIEF by Shelby Hailstone

LADY THIEF by Shelby Hailstone

The Lady Thief is the most famous criminal of her time, but ever since her brush with a spy named Devon, sappy love stories have replaced her previously imperious image.

So when Devon and his team embark on a secret project designed to create the ultimate superhuman agent, the Lady Thief quickly discovers that infiltrating his team is more complicated than she ever imagined.

Between her anger toward him for ruining her reputation and his growing affection for her cover identity, she is drowning in emotions she has never dealt with before. But when evidence points to a rival criminal messing with the team, can the Lady Thief walk away with a clear conscience, or will she risk everything to help the very people sworn to bring her in?

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An Excerpt from: Lady Thief
Copyright © 2011 Shelby M. Hailstone

All rights reserved, Wild Child Publishing.

Prologue
Christmas Bells and Ice

Devon Harris

“Nice try, Aaron.”

Those three words flitted across the screen, flickered, and died. Every light in the room followed suit, buzzing softly before they popped out. Before we could react, the electric locks snapped shut, trapping us in the surveillance room. Only the laptop, which radiated a bright, baby blue in contrast to the smoky darkness, retained its power.

Four pairs of eyes burned into the back of Aaron Fisher’s head, mine burning the brightest. As our appointed leader, we expected him to know everything, to never let anyone catch him off-guard—a high standard, perhaps, but one we held Aaron to because he never let us down before. This breach betrayed that trust, and it stung me especially hard. Aaron and I trained together, and even when he left to try working solo, we kept in touch. I watched him move up in the ranks, and I begged to join his team; I worshipped the ground he walked on.

Without a word, Aaron sat down at the computer and stared at it blankly. We knew he could feel our eyes on him, but he never let it show. He sat there, calm and composed, and some of the hero-worship came back, reaching Amy first, and then me. But I think Amy admired Aaron in a different way than I did. She admired him the way only a girl can admire a guy, and I simply admired the guy because he could do anything.

In his usual, brusque manner, he punched the keys as quickly as his fingers could move. “You have us at a disadvantage.”

Before Aaron could type on, Jared—always the sarcastic one—said, “That’s the understatement of the year.”

Aaron did not notice Jared’s interruption—or if he did, he gave no indication, since he usually ignored Jared’s snide comments anyway—but finished typing, “You know my name, but we don’t know yours.”

“I know all about you and your team. I know about Devon, Amy, Rachel, and Jared, too.”

I blinked in surprise to see my name first. Anyone who knew the team generally accepted Jared as the second-incommand, even if Aaron failed to notice this unofficial position. Something about Jared just commanded respect, and we listened to him without pause—unless, of course, Aaron told us something different. Usually, then, Jared’s name came after Aaron’s, and I celebrated if my name came third. It was an unofficial contest, a clash of egos, and I chalked one up for my almost-empty scoreboard.

We glanced at each other, the beginnings of fear etched into our faces. “How?” Amy whispered, her sharp, Kentucky accent slicing the word into two distinct syllables that sounded like “Hah-yow?”

“Because I always do my research before any job.” The words flashed, unbidden, across the screen—but Aaron did not type anything to elicit a response like that. In the back of my mind, I sincerely hoped the person on the other end of the conversation merely added that to explain how she knew about all of us, but somehow, I doubted that. My training told me to accept the more dangerous answer as the truth; that way, I could prepare for the worst.

Rachel edged closer to the laptop, her dark, slender fingers curling around the back of Aaron’s chair. In her surprisingly calm, gentle voice, she asked, “Can you hear me?”

“Yes,” came the reply from the laptop.

The slender fingers tightened their grip on the chair, the only sign that the reply shook her. I admired her self-control; I could already feel my knees starting to tremble. It took a lot to scare me, so when something threw me off like that, it meant trouble. Big trouble. Every nerve in my body stood on edge, screaming at me to get moving, to find a way out of that locked room, but my feet refused to respond.

“Who are you?” Rachel whispered, her lips moving only enough to allow room for the words to escape through— another sign of her anxiety. Oddly enough, I found some comfort in her fear; at least it justified mine.

A single white line pulsed on the edge of the screen.

“You really don’t know, do you?” The words appeared slowly, letter by letter, as if the one typing could not believe our ignorance.

“‘Course not.” Amy shrugged, never at a loss for words. Her red hair bounced up and down as she tossed her head impatiently, obviously sick of this “mystery typist” routine. “This was s’pposed to be a routine mission. Why’d you think they sent us?”

“I wondered.” The words flickered on the screen, and seconds later, the laptop turned off, leaving us in total darkness.

Without the influence of that faint glow, the spell broke. I heard the faint squeak of a swiveling chair as Aaron stood quickly to scan the room. I snapped on my flashlight to inspect the door, and Amy tucked her hair up into a ponytail to keep it out of her face while she dived under the control panel, hoping to restore power. She put her flashlight between her teeth and pried off her gloves so she could work more easily in that tangle of wires.

“What can we do about the locks?” Aaron asked, all business again. I smiled at that; at last the Aaron Fisher I knew and admired returned.

“They don’t have a manual switch,” I said, examining the steel door. “Unless we get power back, the doors stay closed.”

“Whose idea was that?” Jared growled from the other end of the room while he and Rachel searched for anything to pry open the doors or hot-wire the controls.

“The prince’s,” Amy spat, crawling out from beneath the mess of cables. Amy did not care much for the spoiled boy who hired us to protect him and his prize, probably because he considered her a simpleton because of her accent. If the prince took the time to learn more about Amy, he would regret his condescending tone. I never met anyone smarter than her; she could take apart and reassemble anything electronic in a matter of minutes, she invented most of the gadgets our team carried, and she helped me pass our cryptology class back in basic training.

“Can you fix this?” Aaron asked, hoping that Amy could pull another miracle out of her cowboy hat, as she usually did.

“Nope,” Amy said flatly. “The whole ship runs from one spot—this spot. If we don’t have power, there’s no power anywhere at all.”

“So much for top-of-the-line technology,” Jared grunted.

“From what I can tell, whoever trapped us in here hacked into our system to shut it down. I can’t do anything without power because there’s nothing outside of the stupid computer,” Amy growled, and then she kicked said computer to prove her point. “Our best bet is the door.”

I shook my head. “It’s essentially glued shut, and the prince had the door reinforced with several layers of steel. There’s no way we could break it down, either.”

“What about the air vents?” Rachel offered.

“You expect us to fit through that?” Jared scrutinized the tiny opening, looking skeptical. “I’d come out looking like I got run over by a steam roller!”

“I’ll try,” said Rachel, pulling her hair into short pigtails on either side of her head to keep it out of her eyes. She rolled up her sleeves, pointedly glaring at Jared to show that she actually meant it when she suggested the air vents; how dare he question her ideas? I fought back a smile at that look; Aaron could pull rank on Jared, but only Rachel could really handle him.

Aaron leaned down and brought his hands together to give Rachel a lift. She placed her white tennis shoe in the makeshift sling, and Jared offered his knee for another step up. A few quick flicks of her pocketknife took care of the screws, and the covering clattered to the ground. Her slender body slid neatly through the opening, and she hoisted herself up into the duct.

Amy, with a running start, sprang off of Aaron’s hands next. She flailed her arms, almost too short to reach, but her hands caught the edge of the duct, and she, too, climbed in, flashing us one of her signature, wide grins as she waved at us. “Well, at least now I’m taller than you three,” she chuckled before she ducked out of sight again.

Jared climbed up onto the nearest desk and tried to hoist himself up, but no matter which way he turned, he could not fit his broad shoulders through. Aaron, with his football-player build, did not dare try. That left me. Not that I have a scrawny build or anything; I just have a swimmer’s body— not quite broad, but still well built, I guess. Aaron offered me a leg up—while Jared stood to the side and smirked at the three-inch height gap between him and me that meant I required Aaron’s help to reach the duct—and my shoulders barely slipped past the narrow opening. Once I had my upper body through, I could pull myself up the rest of the way.

Once inside, I saw broken cobwebs to my left and right where Rachel and Amy passed through. That left the middle unexplored, so I took that path. The vent underneath me felt a bit unstable, like crawling on laminated paper, and I could hear my every move echoing back to me, announcing my position to any possible intruders. Wincing, I slowed down the pace, and the echoes stopped.

My knees shuffled behind me as I army-crawled through the vent, checking every turn for an opening. Unfortunately, the offshoots of this particular vent system only led to inner rooms, and I ended up travelling back to the original tiny central tunnel. I scrunched my shoulders closer to my body as the passage narrowed, but the unmistakable breeze coming from up ahead killed whatever curses I started to grumble.

I heard voices wafting through the tunnel, echoing off the dark, silver walls—voices I did not recognize. Fighting the urge to crawl faster toward the intruders, I actually slowed down my pace so I could hear them better.

“It’s got to be somewhere on board,” said a harsh voice. “Split up and start searching.”

“It would be easier if the power grid wasn’t knocked out. All the doors are electrically bolted shut,” a different voice grunted in reply.

“So get a blowtorch,” said the harsh voice, as if the solution should have dawned on the other speaker ages ago. I identified this voice as the leader; the bossy attitude and the self-righteous tone gave him away.

“How utterly unimaginative,” remarked a new, feminine voice that rang like Christmas bells and yet cut me, chilled like ice. It also radiated confidence, and I wondered, for a moment, if I judged too hastily. Maybe this voice belonged to the leader, and the bossy, self-righteous man I heard earlier simply wanted to lead—like Jared wanted to run things while Aaron actually called the shots.

A gunshot followed, echoing loudly in the compact duct. I winced, but the shot was not intended for me. Sheer silence filled the air, so that I could almost breathe in the icy coolness of that silence. I held my breath and willed my heart to calm down; my cover had not yet been blown.

Slowly, the bell-voice started to laugh. It started as a short grunt, and then a cold, cruel, musical laugh that both repelled and captivated me. “As I was saying,” the voice continued, in an amused, almost sarcastic sort of way, “you have absolutely no imagination. A blowtorch? Really? Besides, you got here too late. I have the chemical, as well as the formula. Not that you’ll get either. I memorized and destroyed the formula and the notes, and the chemical—well, I have that on me.”

I sailed through the air duct toward the breeze, hoping to get a better look so I could identify the thieves—and they were thieves, I knew, since the bell-voice admitted to stealing the chemical and destroying the formula. As I moved, though, my walkie-talkie blared Amy’s voice, “What happened? I heard gunshots.”

Surprised, I tried to turn in the cramped space to smother the walkie-talkie, but to no avail. Two more shots rang out, intended for me, not the bell-voice. And I did not—would not—laugh when the bullets barely missed.

Big, hairy hands yanked the cover off of the air duct, and a bearded, red face appeared in the opening. Bloodshot eyes met my green ones, but I did not have enough room to maneuver to reach my revolver. The smelly hands grabbed my wrist and yanked me out, almost dislocating my shoulder.

“Look what I found,” sneered the man with the bloodshot eyes.

The light blinded me momentarily, and then I saw her, that dazzling vision of darkness. She ate the light around her with the blackness of her form. The occasional glint of silver—the edges of her helmet, the band around her upper arm, the bands that hung loosely around her waist—glowed in comparison to the dark depths of her black suit, the black gloves, black boots, black helmet. I recognized her picture from movies, from newspapers. The Lady Thief.

“I caught him eavesdropping,” explained the man whose hands wrenched my arms behind my back and took my gun away. I wanted to hit myself for my stupidity, and yet, somehow, I expected this. I always managed find myself in trouble. Aaron called it my unique talent; I called it downright annoying.

It seemed odd that the bell-voice could come from that dazzling vision, and yet, it made sense. Somehow, the voice inspired visions of sparkling stars and simultaneously froze my blood. No, not quite. My blood did not fully freeze, but bits of it froze, and those icy, glass shards pierced my skin like tiny needles.

“Hello, Devon,” she said, and for some reason, I felt my stomach jump up into my throat at the sound of her voice saying my name.

“You two know each other?” The rough hands relaxed their grip—no one wanted to offend the Lady Thief, not unless they had a death wish.

“I know all about him, and he at least recognizes me, so I suppose you could say that.” The ice melted, and Christmas bells rang again as she laughed.

I decided to keep my mouth shut and let the Lady Thief keep talking—she handled the situation so beautifully before—maybe she could talk me out of this, too. She turned to look at me, and I held her gaze, chin raised. At least, I think I held her gaze. I could not see her eyes behind that helmet.

To my surprise—and apparently hers, judging by her gasp—the ringleader, the one with the scraggliest beard, suddenly lowered his gun at my chest. The hairy hands tightened their grip; I tried to twist away, but my arms caught fire, and the searing pain immobilized me.

“All right, Lady. You've got five seconds to hand over the chemical, or this kid gets it.”

“I think you’re overestimating our relationship,” the bell-voice said coolly, though with an almost undetectable pitch of panic. “Devon and I know each other, but we play on opposite teams. He’s a spy; I’m a thief. You’d be doing me a favor if you got rid of him—it would be one less obstacle.” I did not appreciate her calling his bluff with my life in jeopardy.

The ringleader looked from me to the Lady Thief, and then back to me. He chewed his bottom lip thoughtfully before, without warning, he raised his gun again. He fired three shots in rapid succession—one at her heart and two at her head. She fell backward, and something metal rolled toward me. The men around me chuckled at their leader’s tenacity, and the man who held my arms twisted them harder as he laughed. My eyes brimmed with tears of pain, and I squinted to see what had rolled away—part of a black helmet.

Looking surprised, the ringleader said, “That was too easy.” He licked his lips and then leveled his gun at my chest.

Something dark and fast hit the ringleader, knocking him over. The shot went wide, and I only realized I closed my eyes when I opened them again.

The ringleader lay unconscious on the ground, and the Lady Thief stood over him. She kept her head turned so I could only see her helmet, but I could see the serrated edges where bullets met metal. Blue sparks danced across her helmet, and she yelped in pain and surprise, yanking it off.

“Short circuit,” she explained tersely, but I hardly heard her. I saw only two turquoise eyes set in a perfect, pale face. She tucked her hair into a bandanna, so I did not see it. But I knew I would never forget that face as long as I lived—which might not be long, since I had seen her face, and the Lady Thief survived on secrecy.

“I suggest you let him go now,” the Lady Thief said to the man holding my arms, her voice colder than ice so that even I felt a thrill of fear, even though I knew she just saved my life.

The gruff hands, trembling, released me, and the man stumbled away, along with the rest of the thieves. I rubbed my arms tenderly and then looked up to see the turquoise eyes staring intently at me.

“You owe me your life,” she said, her voice suddenly soft but still cold, like snow.

“Thank you?” I offered, though I knew mere thanks would not satisfy her.

She shook her head. “You know I can’t let you live if you know who I am. It would ruin everything. But, if you give me your word that you won’t give me away, I’ll consider the score even, and I’ll let you live.” I knew I could not hope for a better offer, but something stopped me, made me question it.

“How do you know I’ll keep my word?” I asked, curious.

Why would she let me go? How would she benefit from letting me live?

“I know everything about you, remember? I know where you live and where your friends and family live. The results would be…unpleasant for you if you broke your promise.” Her lips curled into a smile, but this one did not chill me. So, I decided to call her bluff.

“And what if I don’t agree to your terms?” I did not know where this newfound courage came from, but I worried it would just dig me deeper into trouble—all part of my so-called unique talent for danger.

The turquoise eyes narrowed, annoyed, and she checked over her shoulder to make sure the gruff thieves could not see us from their getaway boat. “Well, then, I’ll have to finish off what they didn’t.” She brandished a silver pistol from a hidden pocket on her hip, pointing it carelessly at my heart.

“I dare you,” said my newfound courage, even though my head screamed at my mouth to please shut up.

Her turquoise eyes widened, and ruby-red lips parted in surprise. “You know,” she mused, recovering slightly, “most people would be groveling right now.”

“Hey, don’t get me wrong,” I said, my confidence boiling over. “I’d like to stay alive just as much as the next guy, but I don’t think you have the heart to kill me.”

The silence spanned for an eternity, and it spanned for seconds. Her gloved hand, trembling with rage, tensed up, ready to pull the trigger, but instead, she sighed and shoved the pistol back into its pocket. Through gritted teeth, she asked, “Name your price. What'll it take for you to keep your mouth shut?”

“Who’s groveling now?” I grinned. I knew I went too far even before the gloved hand balled up into a fist. Glove met jaw, and I stumbled sideways, almost losing my balance.

“Don’t push it,” she sneered. “There are other ways to hide my identity.”

Rubbing my jaw, I could not quite recover my earlier confidence as I said, “I want the chemical back.” Carefully, I pressed a tiny button which activated the recorder on my wrist, hoping to have some concrete evidence to use against her. I covered the movement by pretending to massage my bruised arms.

She knew better. Her trained eyes saw the watch on my wrist, and she snatched it, crushing it beneath her boot. “Just name your terms and get on with it,” she snapped. “And no tricks, or you just might find yourself marooned on an island or something. I'll come up with a fair punishment; believe me.”

“No, I really want the chemical back,” I pressed.

“After all the work it took to get it in the first place? You’re kidding, right?” she scoffed, turning away to leave.

“Let’s see. Turquoise eyes, pale complexion, very defined jaw line, high cheekbones,” I listed. “Should be enough for any artist to draw your picture.”

She stopped, and I could see a small vein pulsing in her neck. “Fine!” she shouted at last, throwing the chemical at my feet. The tiny vial bounced neatly, barely a scratch on it. “You do know, of course, that I memorized the formula anyway. It won’t do you any good to have that.”

“Just a little memento.” I grinned casually.

“How ‘bout another one?” she smirked, and bells rang in my head as her glove connected with my eye. “And you can tell everyone where you got the black eye from.”

Tired of letting her beat me up, I threw my own punch, but she caught my fist in one swift movement and twisted it behind me so suddenly that I let out an involuntary gasp. She laughed again, but this laugh chilled me instead of enchanted me. I tried to wrench my arm out of her grasp, but every time I moved, it hurt more.

“You have the chemical, now keep your word,” she whispered tersely in my ear, her warm breath tickling and sending shivers down my spine at the same time. “From here on out, we’ll pretend this never happened. And don’t try a stunt like that again. You’re only alive because I can fight. Don’t try to push me.”

She let go of my hand and started to walk off. Suddenly, she paused, almost as an afterthought. “You’ll need an alibi,” she said, and ice ran through my veins as the ruby-red lips parted into a smile.

I saw the heel of a boot, and then darkness.

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EXIXTENCE by Abbi Glines

EXISTENCE by Abbi Glines

What happens when you're stalked by Death? You fall in love with him, of course.

Pagan Moore doesn't cheat Death, but instead, falls in love with him.

Seventeen-year-old Pagan Moore has seen souls her entire life. Once she realized the strangers she often saw walking through walls were not visible to anyone else, she started ignoring them. If she didn't let them know she could see them, then they left her alone. Until she stepped out of her car the first day of school and saw an incredibly sexy guy lounging on a picnic table, watching her with an amused smirk on his face. Problem is, she knows he's dead.

Not only does he not go away when she ignores him, but he does something none of the others have ever done. He speaks. Pagan is fascinated by the soul. What she doesn't realize is that her appointed time to die is drawing near and the wickedly beautiful soul she is falling in love with is not a soul at all.

He is Death and he's about to break all the rules.

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An Excerpt from: Existence
Copyright © 2011 Abbi Glines

All rights reserved, Wild Child Publishing.

A movement, out of the corner of my eye, caused the hairs on my arms to prickle. I’d known better than to stay in this empty room. But I was here now and running would make it worse. I turned to face the same soul from outside sitting in a chair at the back of the classroom with his feet propped up on the desk in front of him and his arms crossed casually over his chest. How had he known I could see him? I’d given no indication outside. Normally ghosts needed a little clue from me to realize I wasn’t as blind as the rest of the world. Something was different with this one. I dropped my gaze and started to turn around. Maybe I should go join Miranda and the jock squad out in the hall. If I acted like I didn’t see him and casually made my way back into the hallway then he might think he’d made a mistake and float away or walk through a wall or something.

“You don’t really want to subject yourself to such pointless company do you?” a cold, smooth voice broke the silence.

I gripped the hard plastic chair beside me so hard that my knuckles turned white. I fought down a startled little cry— almost a scream—in the back of my throat. Should I ignore him? Should I respond? Alerting him that his hunch was right might not end well. But ignoring this was going to be impossible. He could speak. Souls never talked to me. From the time I realized that the strangers who frequently watched me or appeared in my home and wandered the halls were not visible to anyone but me, I’d started ignoring them. Seeing dead people wasn’t a new thing for me but having them talk to me was definitely a new twist.

“I pegged you with more guts. Are you going to let me down too?” His tone softened. There was a familiar drawl in his voice now.

“You can speak,” I said looking directly at him, I needed him to know I wasn’t afraid. I’d been dealing with wandering souls, which is what I like to think of them as, all my life. They didn’t frighten me but I liked to ignore them so they would go away. If they ever thought I could see them, they followed me. He continued to watch me with an amused expression on his face. I noticed his crooked grin produced a single dimple. The dimple didn’t seem to fit with his cold, arrogant demeanor. As much as his presence annoyed me, I couldn’t help but admit this soul could only be labeled as ridiculously gorgeous.

“Yes, I speak. Were you expecting me to be mute?”

I leaned my hip against the desk. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I was. You’re the first one who has ever spoken to me.”


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